Because I Love Him
by Pixie Child
Summary: Willow is with Angelus. She is human, he is a soulless vampire. Think about it.


Because I love him.  
AUTHOR: Dark Will (screwin_evil@hotmail.com)  
RATING: R  
SYNOPSIS: Willow is with Angelus. She is human, he is a soulless vampire.  
Think about it.  
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon owns Willow, Angelus and all other charters from  
BtVS  
MAIN CHARTER: Willow  
PAIRING: Willow/Angelus  
FEEDBACK: Tells me all the things I do wrong. How can you deny me that?  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Willow POV.  
Panting, I stare wide-eyed at the wall in front of me.  
I should be afraid of him, I know. But I'm tired of being good, always  
doing what other people say is the right thing. So instead, I moved closer  
to him.  
Press my body into his.  
The friction between us so right, makes me feel so. I don't know, warm.  
Hot. Burning hot. Hotter then molten lava in the center of an active  
volcano. Hotter then the sun.  
He excites me more than anyone ever has.  
And now I'm in computer geek mode. I look up at him and he looks right back  
at me.  
Looking into my soul.  
Somehow, I know he knows what I was thinking. Blushing, I jerk my head and  
stare at the ground. And he laughs at me. He _laughs_ at me.  
My face heats up again, but this time out of anger.  
"Don't laugh at me." I say, half ready to rip the smirk off his face. "I  
hate it when people laugh at me."  
His hand catches my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His dark brown eyes  
burning into my green ones.  
"No one will laugh at you again." Then he leans in, his apology ready.  
I whimper as he ravaged my mouth with a demanding kiss.  
It always works, when he does this.  
I fall for it every single time.  
And then he's running his hands up and down my back.  
His way of telling me to brace myself.  
Because he doesn't do what he does to hurt me.  
I _am_ the one who started it.  
I _am_ the on who suggested it.  
And I'm the one who enjoys it the most.  
Believe it or not, little Willow Rosenburg likes the pain. Hell, she gets  
off on the pain he gives her.  
Then his hands slip under the back of my shirt, and he begins tonight's  
picture. His nails are sharp, as he drags them lightly across my back,  
making a design. *A butterfly!* I realize.  
The marks decorate my pale skin, just as he likes. They always leave a  
slight scar, but not that it matters. He loves creating pictures on my  
back. He does a different one every time.  
I am his work of art.  
For a moment I feel guilty. Because I failed to save the world from a  
monster that knows nothing of love or friendship.  
No, that's wrong he does love one thing. Me.  
But I failed to save Buffy, Xander, Giles and Miss Calander.  
I'd like to say I failed to save Cordelia, but I didn't fail to save her,  
as I'm the one who killed the stuck-up bitch.  
Oh, I did fail to save one other person.  
I failed to save myself.  
Or at least Buffy thought I needed saving. And she thought that until the  
very end.  
Or, at least, her end.  
But in the conceded mind of Buffy Summers, the world can't turn without her  
alive and kicking.  
She deserved to die, damn self-riotous bitch.  
Oh my god. I didn't just think that. I couldn't have just thought that. No  
me. I'm possessed. That's it. Like the hyena that took over Xander.  
Xander. What an ass. There I was, doing everything I could to get him to  
notice me, and he never even thanked me for all the times I had him over  
when his parents were drunk or how I'd put up with his damn ignorance about  
how I felt for him while he would ramble on about how much he liked _her_,  
and he never _once_ noticed me. I swear, Jessie had a better chance of  
getting a sexual response from him then I did. Even _after_ he died and was  
buried six feet under the ground.  
Not that it matters anymore that he never saw me as more then a 'bestest-  
bud'.  
Oh, wait, he did. He saw me as his murderer's girlfriend. You should have  
heard the things he screamed at me before he died. The things he called me  
before.  
If he had just excepted it. Just excepted the fact that I love Angelus.  
But no. I was supposed to moon over him while I had no better chance of him  
seeing me then he did of Buffy ever seeing him.  
If he had excepted it, he might still be alive.  
But he didn't.  
He had to try to tell me that Angelus would eventually turn on me.  
That my lover would become, oh I don't know. bored of me.  
That after he had his fill of my innocence he would simply kill me or make  
me like Drusilla. An insane vampiress.  
But he just wouldn't except it.  
So he went and told Buffy about us.  
He is the reason Buffy died. Not me. Not Angelus. No, not us. Him. If he  
hadn't gone running to Buffy, she wouldn't have attacked us, she wouldn't  
have threatened to kill me if Angelus didn't leave town. If she hadn't have  
known about us so soon, she wouldn't have done that, and Angelus wouldn't  
have had to kill her to protect me.  
So of course Angelus had to kill Xand.  
And even then, he wouldn't except his fate. He wouldn't except that he was  
going to die.  
If he had, it would have been a quick, clean death. I might have even  
mourned him.  
But he didn't.  
Big surprise.  
He called me every vile name in the book.  
Every single awful thing Cordelia, Harmony and all their followers had ever  
said to me.  
And then he said things that I hadn't even ever heard of before.  
Things that Angelus wouldn't tell me what they meant, even after I wouldn't  
make love to him for a week, saying that I never would again unless he told  
me.  
So he did.  
Oh, not all of them. Just two of the thousands of cruel names my so-called  
best friend shouted at me while Angelus was making him pay for all the  
things my childhood friend did to me to 'save me from that horrible,  
soulless, unclean thing living in Buffy's true love's body.  
But it was enough to make any guilt, sorrow or remorse I felt for Xander or  
the way that he died ceases to exist.  
I hate the son of a bitch.  
And that that blond whore whom, instead of being happy that I found love,  
tried to take it away from me. Tried to take _him_ away from me.  
NO! I don't hate them. I love them!  
Xander's goofy smile, the dumb things he would go out of his way to do to  
cheer me up, the ridiculous Snoopy dance he did for my amusement.  
Buffy's jokes, the way she threw away the chance to be popular just to be  
my friend.  
I'm never going to see them again.  
And I don't care. I know I should, I loved them with my heart. Xander was  
my first love. I thought of Buffy like a sister.  
So why haven't I cried even one tear for them?  
Why don't I hate Angelus for killing them?  
Why don't I have him for making me a killer?  
Because I love him.  
He's walking close to me. So close. Its almost like we are one person.  
But he isn't a person.  
He's an evil vampire.  
He's the murder of my friends.  
But for some reason, I can't find it in my heart to hate him. Hell, I can't  
find it in my heart to even be upset with him.  
He's brushing his body against mine, knowing that I can't stand his  
teasing.  
He knows this, yet he always does it anyhow. Because he loves how he  
effects me. And to tell the truth, so do I.  
I love the way he can play me like a fine instrument, knowing just what  
buttons and keys to get me to react.  
He must feel me shivering through my blouse. Shivering with anticipation.  
Shivering with desire. Desire for him.  
He turns me around, so that I face him. He shoves me hard, so my back  
against the wall.  
Why is he doing this to me?  
He knows that I wish I could hate him.  
That I could hate him for all the things he did to my friends.  
That I could hate him for all the things he still does to me.  
Angelus, let me go. Please, for goddess's sake, just let me go.  
I look up into his deep, brown eyes and I regret it. I shiver, cold,  
freezing. All the heat I felt earlier is gone.  
The moment I see his intentions, my blood is replaced by ice. And I see  
that Xander was right.  
Oh, he loves me, I don't doubt that. But he is a demon, and always will be.  
And soon, I will be, too.  
The ice-cold gaze in his eyes tells me that, and makes me nearly cry.  
There's no mercy in him.  
There never was.  
He planed this all along.  
It's not as if he turned on me. He means well. He wants to spend eternity  
with me.  
But I'm still terrified.  
Because no matter how well he means, I'm going to die tonight.  
Slowly, I reach up and touch his bare chest, and softly run my fingers  
softly along his muscles.  
I feel his hands run up my arms and grip my shoulders tightly, making my  
arms tingle from the lack of flowing blood in them. And it is then I  
finally let my tears to run down my face.  
It is only then do I allow myself cry for all the hurt feelings, fear and  
pain I've felt over the past two months.  
I look up at him, my eyes pleading. Begging for him to let me live out my  
life.  
But it's futile.  
He won't let me go.  
Why did I ever think otherwise?  
Because I'm stupid, that's why.  
Trying my best to except my fate, one that I will share with Buffy, Xander  
and all the others, I lean my forehead against his chest, listening for a  
heartbeat that's not there. It was never there, or at least not for over  
two hundred years.  
A man without a heart is a man without mercy.  
My lover.  
And now, my murderer as well.  
I let out a slight whimper along with my tears, but I needn't have. It  
doesn't do any good. No one can save me now. Not even Buffy. Whispering a  
quiet prayer, I tug at the shoulder of my shirt, exposing my neck for him,  
in a silent surrender.  
I don't need to say anything. He knows he's won. He always does, one way or  
another.  
But this is the last time. Because I won't be alive for another round.  
He lifts me up in a fireman's carry and brings me into the bedroom.  
He places me on our bed, and lowers himself down on top of me. I look up at  
him, my salty tears rolling down my cheeks.  
And he doesn't care.  
Why doesn't he care?  
It hurts so much.  
Why doesn't he care that I'm hurting so bad?  
Why?  
He has gone in to game face. The same look I'll have soon. Way too soon. I  
squeeze my eyes as tight as I can and wish that this were a dream. If it  
were only a dream. If Buffy and the others were still alive, Angel still  
had his soul, I had Oz, and this were only a bad dream.  
I feel him bring his head down, so his mouth on just centimeters away from  
my neck.  
This is it. I'm going to die right now.  
Just wanting it to be over, I let out the breath I believe to be my last.  
But he just blows air into my ear.  
I open my eyes, and hate myself for it. He raises his head again, and  
forces me to look at him.  
I refuse to meet his eyes with my own, like I know he wants me to.  
I reach out, and caress his face, my fingers dancing over the ridges in his  
forehead.  
He is so beautiful. Even as he plans to kill me, he is still beautiful.  
He is still so damn beautiful.  
His tongue begins to lightly stroke the flesh at the base of my neck.  
I moan as a shiver of pleasure goes up my back.  
How can he do this to me? Have me practically ready for death and then do  
something like that? The only time he would ever do that to me was while we  
were making love. Right before he would make me cum. And then he goes and  
does it now?  
Then his lips are on my neck as well, teasing the tender flesh. His hands  
join the performance, massaging my back, pressing into my pleasure-points.  
I let out yet another moan, (though this one sounds more animalistic then  
the last) as he sends multiple shivers of pleasure lacing up and down my  
spine.  
God, he is so _good_ at this. Why does he have to be so damn _good_?!?  
He keeps up the pattern until I can't take anymore.  
My back arches, my body trying desperately to find more friction, and his  
fangs sink into my neck.  
The sharp pain of his fangs cutting into my pleasure makes me scream so  
loud that I'm surprised my lungs don't burst.  
His hands continue to please me, as he steals my life.  
His mouth becomes a vacuole and he grunts and growls all the while.  
He rejoices as he drinks me. The tears that had stopped as he played with  
me, come pouring out faster then before.  
My life along with my tears.  
My soul with my blood.  
And it is all my fault.  
I am the one to blame.  
I am the _only_ one to blame.  
Because I love him.  
Because I still love him. Even after everything he did, even after the fact  
that he is taking my life right now, I love him.  
Because everything he does is because he loves me.  
So how can I not love him?  
He is my Angelus.  
And I love him. 


End file.
